The answer was clear, and after another few seconds, Peter excused himself and returned to his office. The door panel to the wall safe stood ajar, just as they had left it in the event they needed to hide quickly. The rest of the office was mostly untouched, save for Peter’s massive, hardwood desk, which had been tossed, presumably for no other reason than that the zombies had found many humans cowering under desks during their hunts. The drawers faced straight upward, which made it a struggle to open one, but after a moment of effort, Peter succeeded in doing so.
He pulled out an expensive, European handgun in its shoulder holster, still fragrant with the smell of leather, oil, and gunmetal.
It was hardly used. While he’d practiced often on the range, he usually did so with other, less treasured weapons, to avoid wear and tear. Moreover, like most of the moneyed elite, Peter Hanson preferred armed bodyguards to firearms. It was his chief of security that had impressed upon him the wisdom of keeping the gun on hand ‘as a last resort’. Peter Hanson, after all, had been a very large fish, accustomed to swimming in very dangerous waters.
He marveled to think what Horace (his chief of security preferred ‘Harry’, but Peter had always thought of him as a Horace) might have said today.
The gun would be a precaution, a sort of ‘dead man’s switch’, capable of summoning zombies down on everyone if negotiations turned sour. In that event, Peter, Margaret, Martin, and Alicia could retreat to the wall safe – which was, incidentally, also quite human-proof – while the hostiles were left to deal with hordes of approaching undead.
As a plan, it was hardly foolproof, but it was the best he was likely to come up with at short notice. In truth, he rather hoped it would not be necessary. Food was running out, and none of Peter’s group had come up with any answer to the problem of how to replenish it. One thing they did know: you would only ever get one encounter with a zombie. There were no second chances.
He strapped the holster to his chest, partly visible under his suit jacket, and returned to join the others. Immediately upon his return, he sensed their excitement.
“They’ve got the message, sir!” Martin said. “There was a big… I don’t know… event down there, and all of a sudden, zombies from all over started running away in one direction. Somebody got out of that thing – turns out it is a vehicle, sir – and it looked from here like they got one of our papers. Then… something took off… it’s… it’s some kind of flying thing…”
“Thank god!” Margaret said.
“Excellent news, Mr. Phillips,” Peter said, straightening his jacket so that it better covered up his holster.
“It’s a… it’s some kind of toy,” Martin said, his voice resonating surprise. “Jesus Christ, it’s a drone!”
“Military or commercial?” Peter asked.
“Commercial, by the look of it,” Alicia said, jumping in. “It’s coming straight up along the wall. Whoever’s flying it has had a lot of practice. It’ll be here in a few seconds. What do you want us to do, sir?”
“Don’t appear too desperate,” Peter said, “but make sure you flag it down when it gets close. It’s looking for us, and we don’t want to be missed.”
“Do… do you think they’re dangerous?” Margaret asked, as if the notion was only now occurring to her.
“I think,” Peter said, “that we have no alternative.”
“It’s here,” Martin said, scrambling backwards and climbing to his feet.
Peter heard it before he saw it, a faint buzzing sound that came from below the lip of the window. Soon, the drone appeared, a four-propeller, cube that had been designed to look vaguely like a spaceship. It rose quickly, and seemed about to continue its journey upward when it spotted them at the last minute, and stopped.
It hovered wildly for a few seconds, then lurched through the window, stopped its engines, and sank to the ground.
“Found you,” it squawked. “That was some tricky flying. You wouldn’t believe the wind currents up here, especially with most of the windows smashed. I don’t think we’ll have the power to fly back down again, so I’ll ask you to hang onto this drone until we can come and retrieve it from you.”
Startled, the four of them could only stare for a few seconds.
“Sorry for the weirdness,” the tiny speaker said. “If you pick up the drone and look into the lens, we can see your faces down here. As you can see, the drone has been modified to carry a powerful little speaker and a camera. It’s just one of the many clever innovations we’ve had to rely on.”
“Very enterprising,” Peter Hanson answered, picking up the drone and addressing the camera. “Am I to understand that you’re with the gov-”
“Unfortunately,” the voice started up again, “this communication is one way. It was too much weight to put a listener on this particular model, though we’re working on it. For the moment, you’ll be forced to communicate by holding written messages up to the camera.”
Peter paused, and then snapped his fingers. “Paper!”
Martin scrambled to obey, also grabbing up one of the pens they’d used to write they’re messages, and passing it to him.
“You’re lucky you found us,” the voice continued. “Smart idea, dropping those papers, by the way. We were only passing through. We discovered some livestock in the old distillery district recently and have been making trips transporting the chickens back to our home zone where we could keep an eye on them and take advantage of a supply of fresh eggs. This was our last trip.”
Peter starting writing, ignoring the voice as he wrote. He slowed, however, as what the voice said next reached him.
“Let me see if I can anticipate some of your questions. My name is Paul, and I’m down here with our chief of Police, Krissy. No, we’re not with the government. Yes, we can get you to a place of safety. Yes, we have food, running water, power, skilled technicians, medical supplies, and a growing list of shelters that the zombies aren’t able to find. There are about seventy of us now, and we’re growing. A man called Marshal and his friend Luca are in charge of everything, but all they’re concerned with for now is rescuing as many people as they can. I was one of them. You are invited to join us. The rules are the same for everyone: your safety is assured to the best of our ability. Your body and your possessions are yours; no one is to violate either while you’re with us. Like I said, Marshal is the ruling head of state, the ultimate decider for our entire community. He’s away at the moment, so his assistant, Valerie, is acting leader. There are other executive positions as well, appointed by Marshal, but we can tell you all about that later. Um. Oh yes. If you join us, you are expected to contribute in some way, either on your own or by taking on some duty that we give you. If you have any talents or skills, let us know as soon as possible because we need more of everything.”
Peter crumpled up the note he’d been writing.
“When can we go?” Margaret asked.
Peter hesitated, then scribbled out ‘When?’ and held it up to the camera.
“We’ll have to let Valerie know that you’re here,” the voice answered, “but I’m sure she’ll have Crapmobile back to fetch you by the end of the day. We’re a little overwhelmed at the moment. We just finished rescuing a big group of people from the Stockyards a couple of days ago and it’s stretched our capacity to the limit. There’s another group we have to rescue from the U of T campus, but they’re going to take some strategy, so we’re almost certain to come and fetch you first. How many of you are there?”
Peter quickly scribbled out ‘4’, and held it up to the lens.
There was a long pause.
“Then, I have some good news,” the voice said at last. “We just radioed Valerie, and since there are only four of you, we’re going to take you back to the apartment right now, if you’re ready. Just hang tight for about fifteen, twenty minutes while we send another drone up the… the north stairwell. If there’s any undead still in the building, that should clear them out. We’ve got speakers planted al
l through these streets… Look. Just trust us. Keep hold of this drone, come down when we tell you, and you should be safe. We’re getting pretty good at this. And then, once we get you to the apartment, there will be hot showers, hot food, and a safe mattress waiting for you. Does that sound okay?”
“Dear God, yes,” Margaret gasped.
Again, Peter hesitated. Then, wrote.
“Sounds fantastic. Say when.”
“It won’t be long,” the voice said, and the red light next to the lens went dark.
“Well,” Peter said thoughtfully, handing the drone to Martin. “That sounds like about the best deal we could hope for. Safety, electricity, food, water, community… and they respect ownership. Any thoughts.”
“All I heard were the words ‘hot showers’,” Margaret said longingly. “We have to join them. Whoever they are, we’re better off with them than we are alone.”
“Mr. Phillips?”
“As you say, sir,” Martin answered. “Best deal on the table. Only deal on the table, and it could have been a lot worse.”
“And, Ms. Givens.”
“We have to take it, sir,” Alicia said, a pained expression on her face. “Whoever this ‘Marshal’ or ‘Valerie’ is, they’ll feed us, keep us safe. We can revisit our options after we’re there.”
“Agreed.” For the first time in weeks, Peter felt a true sense of optimism. “Very well, then. Our new friends are likely to stir up the neighborhood in their efforts to rescue us, so I think our best course is to retreat into hiding until they arrive. Might I suggest a slight feast of whatever remaining food we’ve been saving? It might be a bit premature, but I am famished. Alicia?”
“Twenty packets of salted almonds, Mr. Hanson,” the young woman said, frowning as she recounted provisions from memory. “One can of cold ravioli, two chocolate bars, a half a box of stale crackers, lots of bottled water, with sugar packets and powdered milk, and two packaged cupcakes that appear impervious to the passage of time.”
“That’s all?” Peter frowned, looking over at Martin.
“I… I was about to risk a trip two floors down, sir,” Martin said uneasily. “We haven’t scavenged there yet. I’d just been putting it off-”
“Consider it canceled, young man,” Peter said firmly. “This will be quite enough until our new friends arrive. Consider yourself promoted to vice-president, with commensurate perks and privileges, and a two million dollar bonus. You as well, Alicia. Margaret will make a note. Both of you have done an exemplary job in a difficult situation.”
“Thank you, sir,” Martin said, and Alicia flushed with pleasure.
Margaret sighed.
T-Bone fought back his vomit, and struggled to climb yet another flight of stairs.
“I don’t… fucking care anymore,” Vito gasped, collapsing on the flat area between stairwells. “I’m gonna… fucking die if I have to go up… another fucking flight of stairs… so just fucking… kill me now…”
T-Bone didn’t hesitate, stepping around the big Italian man like he was nothing more than a pylon on the stairs. Even as he did this, he heard the telltale voice of their tormentor behind them.
“You can’t stop here, Vito,” Captain Vandermeer said from behind him. “Is this the top of the building?”
How in the fuck did he keep appearing like that?
“Aww, fuck! C’mon!” Vito’s voice complained desperately. “How’d you know that I was-”
Bzzzzzt! Bzzzzzzt!
“OW! Fuck! Okay, okay! I’m going, already!”
T-Bone increased his speed. With the added impulse fear provided, he put as much distance between himself and Vito as he could manage.
It was all just…. stupid! Who did this fucking soldier think he was anyway? Not that it mattered. Right now, he was reality, and if there was one thing T-Bone respected, it was the pain of reality.
“Move it, move it, moooo-ove it, troops!” came the voice over the nearby intercom.
Running up the stairs for all he was worth, T-Bone swore that, one day, he was going to stand over the bloody corpse of that Captain, or Master-Corporal, or whatever the fuck he called himself these days. There would be payback for this… this…
“Move it, Private Bonham! the loudspeaker bellowed, and despite the fact that he felt like his guts were going to spill out his nostrils, T-Bone found another hidden gear and stepped on it.
In the beginning, it had seemed like a big joke. Back when the soldier had them lined up and was addressing them for the first time.
“You’re all in the army now,” newly minted Captain Vandermeer had barked at them, provoking a collective splatter of laughter. “You will care for your uniforms like...”
It was at this point that Brock, the biggest and toughest of them now that Chugger was gone, had decided to cut this soldier-boy down to size. Six foot four, three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, bone, and gristle, Brock stepped forward, intending to make a statement - permanently if possible - on the good Captain’s skull. Brock had been an enforcer for the Hell’s Angels, before an unfortunate drug bust caught him visiting some small-fry distributors on the Yonge Street strip. T-Bone had given a jovial elbow to Ramirez in anticipation of Captain Vandermeer’s premature departure from this world.
Only, it hadn’t worked out that way. One moment, Brock was closing on the soldier. Then, there had been a blur of exchanged moves, too fast for T-Bone to follow, and Brock was lying on the ground with a look of surprise, a bloody nose, and an arm-lock that kept him there. And then, with a look so peaceful you’d think he was reading a Bible, the Captain was applying an electric cattle prod to Brock’s testicles.
Oh! How T-Bone had come to hate that cattle-prod.
“Come on, guys,” Vito had shouted, even as Brock was writhing on the ground. “Let’s fucking swarm the motherfucker! We beat him down, and we’re free!”
Three people were actually convinced to follow Vito. They charged, and what followed happened… so... fast, that T-Bone still found himself searching his memory to try to remember how it had all worked. Three men and Vito were suddenly lying on the floor, groaning in pain, while Captain Vandermeer applied shock after shock to the writhing body of Vito.
Bzzzzt! Bzzzzt! Bzzzzt!
Mass confusion had taken over after that, with everybody too baffled and alarmed to even dare to question the Captain’s orders. Like a group of frightened sheep, they fell in line. When they weren’t fast enough, the Captain would correct their mistakes with a casually horrible stab of electricity, until they couldn’t organize enough thought to disobey.
First order of business was to inform them that he wasn’t a Master-Corporal anymore.
“Circumstance,” Vandermeer had informed them, “has forced me to take on the rank of Captain, that circumstance being that you morons are too stupid to know what a Master-Corporal is anyway. From now on, you will call me Captain, or ‘Cap’ if we become friends. Here’s a hint, maggots… we’re not starting out as friends.”
Bzzzzt! Bzzzzt! Bzzzzt!
No, thought T-Bone. No, we weren’t. Friends didn’t make friends run up, then down, and then back up again the seventy-two flights of stairs in First Canadian Place. Friends especially didn’t electrocute friends with a cattle prod if they weren’t moving along fast enough.
“Prison has made you all soft,” the intercom sneered, and T-Bone would have laughed if he didn’t think it would make him puke. “There’s more to fitness than the weight room, gentlemen! The day will come that you thank the army! There’ll be a day that you get down on your knees and thank the almighty God that you found the army! I see you vomiting, Private D’aoust, you French Canadian sack of shit! That’ll be twenty extra push-ups when you reach the top floor! That’s valuable nutrition you’re wasting! Do you think rations grow on trees?”
Honestly, T-Bone thought as he half-staggered, half-crawled his way up another flight of stairs. If this motherfucker wasn’t dead by the end of the week…
“You people
have already failed as humans,” the intercom droned onwards. “The army is going to change all that! Thank God for the army! The army is going to take the miserable shitpiles that you have become and bake you, fry you, grind you, wring you out, and distil you into something more than human! When you are finished, men, women, and children will believe that superheroes are real! Do you understand me, Private Ramirez?”
Whatever Private Ramirez answered, T-Bone couldn’t hear.
After what seemed like an eternity, T-Bone conquered the finish line. It took him a few seconds to realize it, and he stumbled around in confusion looking for the next flight of stairs, before he spotted Ramirez and Brooks collapsed on the floor over in the corner of the spacious room. A light breeze blew in through the open windows, caressing his molten hot and sweating skin like the soothing breath of an angel.
Relief flooded through him, and he didn’t hesitate. Limping over to a chair against one wall, he practically fell into it. It wasn’t a comfortable chair, but it might as well have been the best room at a Hilton.
In the distance, he could hear the intercom still shouting encouragement at the stragglers, and despite his fatigue, T-Bone felt an inexplicable surge of pride at the fact that he had finished third.
Brock arrived next, sweating like a cold beer on a hot day, his long, brown hair sopping wet and clinging to his face. Then, it was Chris Broadhurst, a thirty-something former drug dealer, who’d been serving a dime on trafficking. Then it was the safe-cracker, Leonard, the little Jewish technophile, red-faced and miserable. Joan huffed her way into the room, looking tired but surprisingly better than most everyone else. Then came D’aoust, the French Canadian, a stocky but good-looking guy doing a spot for murder, who’d managed to get a transfer to a Toronto Penitentiary so that he could be closer to his wife and kid. Finally, came Big Vito, pissed off and near death, repeatedly whisper-swearing to himself in a way that was almost tantric. His eyes spied the group, and he almost wept as his legs seemed to give out from under him, and he fell to the ground not five steps from the top of the stairs.
From Oblivion's Ashes Page 52